(no subject)
He'd found a lab coat of his own, two... three days -- weeks, perhaps? -- ago, which came quite in handy, when at such a great risk of splattering his favorite sweater in coagulated blood. On the lab table, there was a irregular mass, lumpy and gray. Quite a prime example of a malignant, metastatic tumor, textbook, really, which was both confounding and disappointing, considering the cadaver he'd fished it out of was really anything but textbook.
Nearby, the PCR was chugging away. Active traces of the virus itself were not to be found, but it was there, none the less, hidden in the man's DNA, written in ink within the code, to be passed down generation to generation. It was ingenious, really. Not his first experience with a virus capable of rewriting the DNA of its infected host, but perhaps the most elegant example he'd had the pleasure of stumbling upon.
He'd had a look at the man's appendage at a cellular level, giddy with the odd deformities to be found down to the very smallest fiber of the man's being. To be quite honest, he would have much rather have had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Desmond at length, while he'd still been alive, but he'd missed his opportunity, and unfortunately, he'd missed the narrow window after death during which they could have still communicated.
Pity.
But tinkering with samples gave him something to do, and for the most part, he was capable of doing such simplistic work without constant supervision, though there were times that he looked over his shoulder, expecting Astrid to be there with her pleasant, helpful face, only to find himself alone.
That was, until, while carefully scraping a sample of nasal epithelial cells from a meticulously cut square of sinus tissue, he heard the low, melancholy moo of a Holstein dairy cow. Freezing, bloody scalpel in hand, Walter turned to look over his shoulder, and standing there, was a very familiar friend.
Letting out a soft Oh! of surprise, Walter turned back to his work, taking a moment to consider the possibility that he'd dosed himself that morning, and had since forgotten.
As far as scenarios go, it wasn't far-fetched.
When someone strode into the laboratory, Walter smiled quite amiably and said, "I'm aware this might seem like a bizarre question, but is there a polka-dotted cow just behind me, there?"
[[OOC: Yes, in fact, there is a Holstein dairy cow with rainbow polka-dots standing in the laboratory. Her name is Gene, she is quite friendly, and someone will need to explain to Walter that she can't live in The Compound, and help him get her to the pasture. A note on Xavier Desmond's remains: I have no idea what happened to the body itself, but Walter was granted permission to take samples from the body, shortly after Xavier's death. They have been in the lab's freezer since. Post open to any and all. ST/LT always welcome.]]
Nearby, the PCR was chugging away. Active traces of the virus itself were not to be found, but it was there, none the less, hidden in the man's DNA, written in ink within the code, to be passed down generation to generation. It was ingenious, really. Not his first experience with a virus capable of rewriting the DNA of its infected host, but perhaps the most elegant example he'd had the pleasure of stumbling upon.
He'd had a look at the man's appendage at a cellular level, giddy with the odd deformities to be found down to the very smallest fiber of the man's being. To be quite honest, he would have much rather have had the opportunity to speak with Mr. Desmond at length, while he'd still been alive, but he'd missed his opportunity, and unfortunately, he'd missed the narrow window after death during which they could have still communicated.
Pity.
But tinkering with samples gave him something to do, and for the most part, he was capable of doing such simplistic work without constant supervision, though there were times that he looked over his shoulder, expecting Astrid to be there with her pleasant, helpful face, only to find himself alone.
That was, until, while carefully scraping a sample of nasal epithelial cells from a meticulously cut square of sinus tissue, he heard the low, melancholy moo of a Holstein dairy cow. Freezing, bloody scalpel in hand, Walter turned to look over his shoulder, and standing there, was a very familiar friend.
Letting out a soft Oh! of surprise, Walter turned back to his work, taking a moment to consider the possibility that he'd dosed himself that morning, and had since forgotten.
As far as scenarios go, it wasn't far-fetched.
When someone strode into the laboratory, Walter smiled quite amiably and said, "I'm aware this might seem like a bizarre question, but is there a polka-dotted cow just behind me, there?"
[[OOC: Yes, in fact, there is a Holstein dairy cow with rainbow polka-dots standing in the laboratory. Her name is Gene, she is quite friendly, and someone will need to explain to Walter that she can't live in The Compound, and help him get her to the pasture. A note on Xavier Desmond's remains: I have no idea what happened to the body itself, but Walter was granted permission to take samples from the body, shortly after Xavier's death. They have been in the lab's freezer since. Post open to any and all. ST/LT always welcome.]]